I Will Follow You Into The Dark (Enjoltaire)
by ElizabethPontmercy
Summary: As a dark looming fate begins to descend upon the Les Amis, certain revelations must be uncovered before something tragic occurs. (Enjoltaire)


Little Gavroche ran up to the top floor of the Musain, where the Les Ami's d'ABC held their weekly evening meetings. Gavroche, at the mere age of 9, reaching only about 4'5, muddled along through the legs of the students. Towrads the back of the cafe, Gavroche met with his gaurdian Courfeyrac and tugged on his pant leg. Courfeyrac bent down to Gavroche's level, and the little boy whispered something into the ear of the 22 year old student that caused the blood to drain out of his face. Courfeyrac slowly raised himself back up to his normal height and croaked out,

"Listen everybody!"

Silence fell over the Musian, Courfeyrac patted the young Gavroche on the back, encouraging him to speak. The little boy's tiny voice rang out across the cafe,

"General LaMarc is dead!"

Upon hearing this, the students began to murmer amongst themselves. One student in particular, who always found himself under the haze of drunkeness, perked up, the fog of alcohol in his brain clearing away somewhat. The drunkard, reality hitting him like a brick, began to panic on the inside. He knew what the death of LaMarc meant, his ideas only to be reassured when the words of the Ami's fearless leader melted into the ears of the students.

"At the tomb of LaMarc shall our barricade rise!"

And the students all cheered. Every student except the drunkard, his eyes never leaving the leader in red. The dark shadow of the Ami's impending fate seemed to only become aware to the drunkard, which began to make him feel quite nauseous. (Although at the time, he was not sure if said feelings were from the newly aquired revelations or from the 3rd bottle of wine he had just topped off)

Removing the drunk from his inner thoughts, a voice called out from across the Musain, a familiar voice, in which the poor drunkard loved to hear.

"Grantaire! Put the bloody bottle down for God's sake!"

The drunkard smirked, taking a long swig from his wine bottle, staring directly into the eyes of the man who had spoke, that faithful leader in red.

With a sudden surge of intoxicated bravery, Grantaire; the drunkard; dramatically got to his feet, his eyes still locked with the man in red.

"It's within these four walls we speak of revolution. We speak of a new world, of a world made free! I hear your calls, 'Death to the king!' 'Liberty for France!' But for what is this all for? Our lives are far too short as it is, yet here we all gather, plotting not to 'change the world' you see, but to cut those short lives even shorter. For having a mindset such as this, you all may think me cynical. But in the place where you say cynic, I say realist. I do indeed understand that one day, when our time has come, we all must die. But why force a time that has yet to come? Why must we play God? Who do with think ourselves to be?"

The leader in red stared down the ranting cynic, a fire lit within his eyes. Grantaire continued,

"I know you all think me worthless, in all fairness I view myself the same. With all due respect to our fearless, god-like leader Enjolras, you're a bastard for treating me the way you do. A drunken fool you say? Incapable of believing in anything? I scoff at such declarations. I am no fool for drinking away the pain, the rejection. And I do indeed believe in something, I believe in you, Enjolras. But you, my good sir, are incapable of love. Love is the worlds greatest ecstacy. A high better than those from the seed of the poppy and the delicate cannibus leaf. This is a world that you my friend, are numb to. Open your eyes and let those around you in! Because again I state, this life is just too short."

The Musain was silent. Every patron in the cafe had thier eyes either on Grantaire in pure shock, or Enjolras, thier fearless leader, awaiting his response. Grantaire stayed silent, his eyes yet to leave those of the handsome Enjolras. The leader took a long exhale, audiable only to those around him, and began to slowly walk through the crowd towards the awaiting cynic.

As the pair came face to face, the tension in the air became so thick the Ami's were barely breathiing. Enjolras, with eyes still locked on the cynical man's in front of him, brought Grantaire into a tight embrace. He pulled away after a few moments, removing a blue, white and red cockade from his jacket pocket. The two mens faces but inches apart, Enjolras reached up to Grantaires' chest and pinned the cockade to the drunkards green vest. With a delicate whisper and a smile the leader spoke,

"Welcome to our revolution, Grantaire." and tenderly took Grantaires hand in his, bringing it up over the top of the newly placed cockade.

Grantire, in this moment, wanted nothing more than to gently place his lips on those of the leader. Grantaire knew he was in love, and it killed the poor cynic knowing it could never be. Under Enjolras' light, Grantaire became someone. He drank to numb that pain, he didn't care about himself in Enjolras didn't.

Grantaire, not wanting Enjolras to remove his gentle touch simply nodded his head in acknowledgment. Enjolras broke the trance when he felt somthing; more like someone; tugging on his pant leg. He looked down to find Gavroche, who whispered in Enjolras' ear that LaMarc's funeral was to be held tomorrow. The handsome leader nodded his head and picked himself back up, ready to inform the Amis of the dawning of their long-awaited revolution, when he noticed the drunkard no longer stood before him, or anywhere in the Musain for that matter. Enjolras felt a sudden, unexplained surge of emptiness.

Grantaire arrived at his flat, feeling smaller than ever. He sat on the edge of his bed, beginning to lose the battle he was fighting against the lump of sadness in his throat. He took a deep, indulgent swig from his now fourth bottle of wine, feeling the familiar warmth of tears begin to decend down his pale cheeks. The reality that tomorrow was the revolution, that tomorrow was the day his friends would die, that he may die, (although Grantaire found himself not dwelling on that tought) that the love of his life would die.

Taking one final drink from his boittle, Grantaire decided that his last day was surely to be a sober one. He tossed the half-empty bottle across the room, not caring when the dark red poison covered his bedroom floor. The cynic was about to allow himself to drift off into an abyss of slumber when a knock on his front door startled him. Reluctantly, Grantaire forced himself to his feet, and somwhat stumbled to the foyer, opening the threshold door. To his surprise, the little boy Gavroche stood before him.

"What do you need Gav?" the cynic inquired in a monotone.

Gavroche frowned and handed the depressed Grantaire a note that had been folded up quite precisely.

"From Enjolras." he replied.

Grantaire took the parchment from the young boy, with a hlaf-smile now present on his face.

"Realy? Thank you Gav."

The little boy nodded and took off, Grantaire closing the door behind him and returning to his bedroom.

Clutching the note tightly, Grantaire took a deep breath and gently began to unfold the letter. Nervously, the cynic began to read in Enjolras' impeccable handwritting:

_To my dear friend,_

_You were right about me, every word of it. I accept the fact that we very well may die at the barricade tomorrow, and it makes me feel ill that you may pass, thinking I loath you. Grantaire I have always cared for you just as much as I care about the other Amis...if not more. Our barricade will be up in front of the Musain after LaMarcs funeral at high noon. I do hope I will see you there and that you will grant me the _privilege_ to fight by your side. But I will understand if you decide agaisnt it._

_Best wishes and my love,_

_Enjolras_

Grantaire was motionless. "_My love,"_ the leadrer had said. "_I have always cared for you,"_ he had written. "_If not more,"_ he had confessed. It was in that moment that Grantiare would indeed fight and die alongside Enjolras at the barricade tomorrow, but only after he had proclaimed his love to the leader. And with that, slumber fell over the love-drunk cyinc.

Awakened by a bright light pouring into his bedroom through the window, Grantaire sat up slowly, rubbing his face with his hands, as if wiping away the fatigue. He reached into his pocket, removing a silver pocket watch. With a swift flick it opened, revealing the time. The clock read 14:37. Grantaire gasped and leaped up, stuffing the watch back into his pocket, along with Enjolras' letter. The leader had said the barricade would be up by noon, the cynic prayed he was not too late.

Grantaire arrived at the Musain to silence. The metalic stench of blood burrned the cynics' nostrils. Stepping over the corpes of deceased French soldiers, the cynic climbed over the barricade, a voice in the back of his mind screaming at him not to give up hope. As he reached the opposite side of the barricade, Grantaires heart stopped as his eyes fell on the faces of all his friends, lying dead where they had all fallen. He saw everyones face, except the leaders.

The cynic, drunk with love, entered the Musain, hearing footsteps on the top floor. Grantaire sprinted up the creaky stairs, taking them two at a time, until he reached the top floor. When he had made it, his eyes locked immediately with those of the brave leader, who was cornered against the back wall by eight soldiers with their guns aimed directly at him.

Grantaire, without hesitation, took five brave strides, placing himself right next to the leader. Grantaire grasped the leaders hand, Enjolras entwining his fingers instantly with Grantaires'. The cynic turned and whispered, staring into Enjolras' eyes,

"Do you permit it?"

Enjolras responded by dramatically pulling Grantaire into a kiss. A kiss that was filled with years of pent-up passion. He pulled away from the cyinc and whispered to his lips,

"I love you."

Grantaire, tears rolling down his face, smiled and spoke gently,

"I love you too my Apollo."

And the report was heard.

Two corpes lay entwined together, hand in hand, smiles on thier now lifeless faces. The cynic and his guiding light, his Apollo.

_His Apollo. _


End file.
